


reprise

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Football AU: Christian is at a sponsor’s event, one that he can’t get out of. He meets Vincent -a jobbing model with more issues than Vogue- but his is a presence that he can’t shake off. The story of them told in five scenes.
Relationships: Christian Eriksen/Vincent Janssen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	reprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



  
Cover art by: [bluedreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming)

**i**

As the evening _heaved_ , where at six p.m., tumblers drained and filled with spirits, the chatter of people filling his ears, you'd think, Christian nodded to himself; his eyes sweeping across the landscape of football fields gridded into futsal fields for the benefit of this event - that a sporting event would have been a bit .... quieter.

Even as he held on to that forlorn hope, Christian knew it was a lie.

Nike went all out when it came to the launch of its new trainers. 

Large screens around the grounds breaking up from solid neon colour into moving images of footballers and the tricks they did on the field. The slow motion matrix bullet time expression of the shoes. Exhibition football artists clad in Nike gear from top to toe showing what they could do, before the images pixelated into little Nike tick insignias only for the videos to start their loops again. Cameras everywhere with so much light and heat generated by them, your face sheened with sweat as if it were summer.

Biting at his thumbnail, he watched the lads - no higher than his knee- as they scampered to and fro, the ball at their feet like loyal dogs at a show. Other lads, flicking the balls on their insteps, balancing it there for a brief second before another flick - the balls disappearing behind their backs, or balancing on their foreheads like highly trained dogs performing tricks for crowds.

Even in the open under late spring skies, the music _thrumbed_. A beat familiar enough that he remembered listening to on local radio which marked the weekend. But not so familiar that he'd remember the words. Other footballers were there, with their significant others and children. Everyone wearing clothes from the sports company, with the iconic tic from caps to trainers.

"Sixty minutes," Christian said aloud to no one in particular, "And I'm gone."

"Two hours."

"Oh, _Toby_."

"They keep us in shoes," Toby responded, bottle of drink already in hand. "The least you can do is show up for the new ones."

When he put it like that... "One hour, forty five minutes. I think that is enough."

"Ninety minutes," Toby glanced at the dial of a watch face hanging off his wrist. "Don't sneak off and I think that I won't know, because I will."

Christian laughed, grabbing a drink from one of the waitstaff passing by. Smartly dressed, but in Nike gear, and the drinks in their original bottles which gave the party a wholly casual vibe. "Okay, I'll... what's the word? _Mingle_. I'll do a once over..."

"I'll be watching you," Toby laughed with a wave, his eyes lighting up when he saw Eden and Kevin in the medium distance. His arm shot up as he waved them over, and Christian took that as a cue to get outta there.

***

"I'm bored," Vincent sulked, fingers gripping around his glass, his arm resting on the temporary Nike bar constructed for this thing. The barkeep already attending to customers at the far edge of the bar, leaving him cursedly alone.

"You're always bored."

Vincent relaxed his grip on the glass, shifted his hand to and fro, allowing the liquid to swirl and eddy. "Even more bored."

"Ah, Vincent, don't moan," and this was Sylvia, gently shaping her curly afro with the palms of her hands, clad in this season's Nike athleisure wear. As a model, she knew her angles; the placement of her arms allowing her breasts to swell against the scooped neckline of her sports bra, her jacket half open. Her legs - kilometres of them- clad in leggings the texture and colour of oiled hot pink snakeskin with mesh cutouts.

A subtle shift, and the soles of trainers - flash of hot pink to match the leggings- to give people something to think about as they moved past.

"When the agency said they had a job for us, I didn't think - "

Sylvia mosied on up to him, swung her arm around his shoulders and drew him against her. Vincent in matching trainers and Nike shell jackets, but him wearing jeans to her leggings. From out of nowhere a flash- and Vincet knew the picture they made. Her cotton candy gloss aesthetic and sparkle to his glower.

He knew why the agency teamed them together for things like this - beautiful people elevated everything.

Knowing his role, his arm snaked around her waist, drawing her against him, lips brushing the nape of her neck. More pictures, before rudely breaking away as soon as the cameras moved on.

"What's gotten into you, luv?" Sylvia asked, sliding him an askance look. "Even more so than usual, I mean?"

Vincent couldn't answer. Not that she'd understand, he reasoned, as he grabbed for his drink. "I'm going to the toilet."

“You’d better be back in good time, or I’ll kill you, Vincent.”

“That would be a change if you actually went through with it. Who knows, it might be interesting.” Vincent slinked off, leaving her huffing with her arms folded under her breasts, her mouth in a pout.

***

The night grew darker and the images brighter and children disappeared for bed.

Christian counted down the minutes, disappointed to see that he still had thirty left. The football fields now host to deejays and speakers and people in silhouette throwing their arms in the air, screaming to a song that just repeated the words _Dibby Dibby_ again and again. Toby being one of them, Christian noticed, his jacket off and tied around his waist, his arms gleaming and bare in the lights, the greyscale of his tattoo sleeves prominent.

One last look at Toby, and Christian turned to go -

" _Shit_!"

"Ah, mate," Christian threw his hands up as a gesture of mea culpa. "Sorry -"

"It's fine," the guy replied, peering at his now empty glass with a rueful tug of his lips, which dimpled his face. His jacket and jeans wet with something that smelt sharply alcoholic and sweet, like rum. "I probably didn't need to be drinking that anyway. "

"I -- " Christian patted his pockets and... nope, nothing. No handkerchief, no paper towel, no tissue. "I'm really sorry," he apologised. "Can I get you another drink?"

"I shouldn't," and yeah, this guy didn't sound English at all. His English was _good_ , although not Scandinavian, nor British. "But I've never been one to say no to a drink."

"All right then," Christian smiled, tilting his head in the direction of the kiosk, "there's a bar over there, we can get one."

 _Okay_ , Vincent thought, as he stumbled along, following this guy with the blonde tuft of hair for lack of nothing better to do. Probably, he _really_ shouldn't have gone to the loo and finished the last of his --- stuff. For one, the highs never lasted high enough - and two he was skidding to grumpy, and all of this - the footballers, the images the - _everything_ hit too close to home. Speaking of home, he should really go there , he should ---

"I'm Christian," a nod and a grin in Vincent's direction. 

Somehow, despite the occasion, and him coming off a gobsmackingly shitty high that was really _crap_ in the first place because he barely even got half way blotto. People selling shitty ketamine, there really _had_ be a law - Vincent couldn't help but smile back. "I'm Vincent."

"Nice, what brings you here, then? Are you a footballer, too? Which team?"

"Uhh... no," Vincent put enough power in his smile to prevent it from dimming. He could do this, this was his stock in trade. He knew he'd stuck the landing when Christian's grin in response hadn't changed. "I'm -- I model."

"Ahhh, " Christian nodded sagely as they stopped by one of the trendy food carts which offered street food. Both ordered hot dogs. "You are the talent."

"Hah, I'm not a footballer."

Christian shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulders. His face pleasant, his eyes scrunching with amusement. "There's more than one talent. I don't think I'd be able to wear --" he waved in Vincent's direction, the colours in the side panelling of the Nike jacket psychedelic. An asymmetrical piece of wonder that was more editoral than actual streetwear.

"And you?" Vincent asked between bites of hotdog.

"I'm not a model."

"Hah," Vincent laughed, "you know what I mean."

Christian chewed his own thoughtfully, his eyes pale in the lights around them. Vincent really _looked_ at him then, with the ruthlessness of a model gauging new competition. High forehead, a blade of a nose, light eyed. His jaw gave a pleasant face some interest and edge, even with the fuzz on his cheeks and jaw that had yet to give into a full blown beard and moustache. His body lean with enough muscle to make it aesthetically pleasing, with an easy athleticism only people who had to be match fit all their lives possessed. 

"I do play football," Christian answered at last.

"Professionally of some sort, or else you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, that too."

"Oh yeah? Which team?"

And as soon as Christian opened his mouth to say something, a voice cut across them both.

"Oi, Christian!"

"Ahhh," Christian said in dry tones, as he waved in Toby's direction. "That's my ride home."

"Oh," Vincent said, not knowing why he felt so deflated, like a balloon that had lost too much air.

"It was nice meeting you," Christian prompted. "I--"

“Hey, Christian! You're coming?”

“One minute,” Christian shouted, Vincent belately noticing how the crowd had thinned out and oh _merde_ , he should have been at his post. 

Sylvia might actually make do on her threat to kill him, just when he’d met someone interesting. 

“It was nice meeting you,” he said before moving away. “Hopefully, we can meet again soon.” 

“Sure,” Vincent agreed, watching him leave. Dirty blonde hair tinted by light, him leaning into the hug by the cluster of people that waited for him, and drew him in. 

Another start, before Vincent realised, this was the first time in a long time he hadn’t been less than interested in anyone or anything. 

And another one - he neglected to ask Christian of no surname for his phone number. 

**ii**

_“Voila”_ Moussa presented the dish on the garden table in front of them, arms gesticulating with a grand arc, fingers splayed as if he’d performed something wondrous - and possibly in his mind, he had.

“MOUSSAKA.”

Jan and Toby blinked, looking at the dish in front of them. The table set like one would expect. Easy and laid back, with bread and wine (alcoholic or otherwise) everyone helping themselves and passing dishes on. 

Jan leaned over, peered at the potato dish topped with baked béchamel sauce, its savoury creamy flavour wafting through the room. So good. 

“It’s... mouss...aka,” Jan sounded out, and on the last word he pressed his palm against his forehead. “As in _mouss_ aka.” On Moussa’s delighted laugh because he finally _got it_ , Jan shook his head, poured himself out a large serving of carbonated water. “How can you give dad jokes and troll at the same time?”

Toby shook his head as he chuckled at his friends, nodding at everyone else to start their meal as he started sharing out the meals. 

“Is it always like this?” Vincent asked, not wanting to laugh if Christian wasn’t going to, although it was funny. He had a thing for the awkward. 

“It’s been worse,” Christian answered, drumming his fingers on the table with one hand, his chin resting against the palm of his other. “For some strange reason, it winds Jan up, and it’s only funnier to Mous’.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent whispered, “for arriving late.”

Christian shifted his gaze from the tableau in front of them to Vincent. The expression on his face considering, unsure for a moment, before his eyes warmed again. “I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.”

Vincent remembering how he’d stirred to consciousness in his bathtub, fully clothed, pressing his hands against his eyes. His phone ringing and vibrating on the tiles beside the bathtub, the noise reaching through layers of and dragging him through said layers of sleep to wakefulness. Uttering a stream of swears, he grabbed for the phone, only for it to skid away from him, bearing towards the open door under its own power as if it were a roomba rather than something to answer calls. 

“‘Kin ‘ell,” Vincent swore, half pushing, half pulling himself out of the bathtub. Sniffed at his armpits and nearly passed out. 

Christian had greeted him with good cheer when Vincent finally showed up, just about on this side of sober, stepping out of a taxi. Hair wet, and drying half flattened, half spiky because he’d applied gel with the accuracy of a sugar laden four year old. The drive from Einfield to Potter’s Bar had done him good. 

“Just leave the windows down - both of them,” he’d told the driver, knowing that the slap of crosswinds on both sides of his face for fifteen or so more minutes would help pump a bit of colour into his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Vincent repeated, and for the first time, saying the lines, he wondered. “It couldn’t be helped.”

***

After dinner came dessert.

Moussa served ... _Mousse au chocolate_ only for Jan to place his hands over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Before Vincent could think of something to do - Jan pushed his hair from his forehead, his face puce with laughter. _“Mouss- “_ he started, only to choke on his chuckle. “You’re _never_ catering for us again.”

And instead of Moussa looking insulted or even... out of sorts, he... gave an okay sign. Christian reached over for his dessert as a thought struck him. “Probably, that was the plan all along?”

“Is everyone...” Vincent asked later, as they drifted to the backyard, “always like this?”

Christian stopped, head tilted to the side as he considered. “What do you mean?”

And Vincent didn’t know what to say.

***

In the way of footballers, with access to green grass with gentle breezes and a bright sky, saw them outside. Idly kicking the ball to each other, in the quick, skilled instinctive way that they had. Vincent content to sit in a comfortable garden chair, eye half on his mobile phone, half on them, as they shed their long sleeved shirts for short sleeved ones, their bodies sheened with sweat as their muscles flexed and contracted with effort and exertion. All of them a relatively even match, the activity relatively ho hum before someone suggested a game of Rondo.

“There’s only four of us,” Christian pointed out to Moussa, “You, me, Jan and Toby --. Unless... Vincent, is it? He’ll do.”

Vincent looked up from the message that arrived in his inbox. 

_Okay, so the last bit was gash, let me make it up to you. This stuff is prime. Y/Y?_

“What? I’ll do... what?”

“Rondo,” Christian smiled, “it’s just a game that we’d play in our academies and - I’ll show you,” he stretched out his hand, waggled his fingers in Vincent’s direction. 

“I--” Vincent started, not knowing how to say this. Christian standing in the spring light, face inviting, offering Vincent a lot more than he’d even imagined. Making him soft and yearning and fragile all at once. 

“I---”

“We’ll be gentle,” and that was Moussa. “Promise.”

***

Rondo, for the uninitiated, was just basically a higher end version of a keep away, with one team having more players than the other. The larger team trying to keep possession of the ball with a succession of passes, and the smaller team trying to get possession of the ball.

The idea, if you listened and grocked The Gospel of Cruyff - was that possession was everything. If the team who had possession did it _right_ looping and stitching passes to each other with such seamlessness - it tightened the bands around the smaller team and suffocated them. 

Christian and himself were in the circle against the others. Two versus three. The ball at their feet.

“It’s relati -” Christian began to explain the principles of the game, but something stirred in Vincent. A flame flickering amongst the ruins apathy and inertia that lived in him for all this time. Something that wasn't boredom or -- 

“Say less,” Vincent cut in front of him, going for Jan’s ankles with a sweep. 

Jan skipped out of the way, saving his ankles, but abandoning the ball. Vincent elbowed Moussa out of the way, ball on his instep as he passed it to Christian. Christian, eyes going from warm and sleepy to cooly calculating, his body moving into shapes on the ball.

“Oooooohhh!” Moussa cackled with _glee_. “We finally have a game on here!”

The game was fierce. Competitive.

And short. 

As in, Vincent stopped, hand slapped against his mouth. 

Face green, stomach turning inside out as he made a beeline to throw up into the bushes. Jackknived and missed.

***

“Is there something I should know?” Christian asked, as he placed a plate of salted pretzels on the coffee table in front of Vincent.

“That I’m waiting to die of embarrassment, you mean?” Vincent said, trussed up in clothes which weren’t his, a light blanket thrown across his shoulders. They were dry and clean and smelt like citrus fabric softener. 

Since they were at Moussa’s house, Moussa loaned him last season’s Tottenham Hotspur training gear of long sleeved top and bottoms and both of them ushered to the living room. Vincent’s clothes had gotten the worst of it rather than the bushes. With the slightly amused attitude of People Who Had Seen It All, he’d been packed off upstairs to bathe, while Toby dealt with his clothing with a look that told Christian that they’d be Having Words as soon as Vincent was well enough to leave. 

“No,” Christian waved the comment away. They were both seated in the living room, away from everyone else. He could hear Toby, Moussa and Jan singing along to some ballad on their internet station. The sky falling into shadows outside as the sun slunk off to the other side of the earth until the next morning. 

In between them, two mugs of sweetened foamy topped mint tea, presented in glasses with mint leaves as garnish. It was too early in the year to light a fire, even for England. 

“I mean... you’ve played football before. At a high enough level. All the times that we’ve spoken, that I’d invite you to --” and Christian’s cheeks might have tinted with a bit of embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”

"No Googling?" Vincent raised his eyebrows. "I should probably be insulted."

"Vince--"

“There’s nothing to know,” Vincent leaned forward, gingerly reaching for the mint glass. 

“You played football once.”

Nothing to say, but. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

For a few moments, with Vincent looking off in the distance, his eyes half hidden under lowered lashes, Christian thought he wouldn’t even answer. 

In repose, his eyes almost bored, Christian couldn’t look away, and abstractedly wondered if that’s why Vincent might have been a half decent model. 

Even in last season Tottenham togs, Vincent forced you to give them a second look. It might have been his features - the russet hair, more verging on reddish brown than chestnut, which matched his eyes - half way between the colour of his hair and cognac. The dimpled cheeks even when gloweringly serious. Or the rakish way he wore the clothes; he’d rucked the sleeves up to his elbows, and left the collar unzipped. The casual drape of the plaid Ikea blanket across his shoulders that made it dashing, instead of someone who'd had a case of the shakes for a few minutes. The line of his neck exposed, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

“I wasn’t good enough. Went as far as to playing in Liga MX,” the laugh harsh and bitter. “It didn’t work out.”

“So... the modelling?”

“Yeah, the failed footballer gave me a ... _narrative_ ” Vincent did quote marks with his hands. “A story to go on casting calls.”

Vincent drew into himself. Feeling chilled now, he tugged the edges of his sleeves down, adjusted the edges of the blanket tighter so it drew up close and taut across his shoulders and along the column of his neck. Remembering when he’d go to casting calls, knowing it would be down to himself and the three other blokes in the room. Everyone the same level of attractive, so you had to do something to standout. In his portfolio, he'd keep pictures of him in branded kit at his manager's suggestion, which always caught the attention of everyone - and the rest of the competition would just - disappear.

 _Oh, you played football, then_ the casting agent would lean forward, and that’s when Vincent would slip the tennis ball from his pocket, do a flick with the ball to his feet, and hate it, and hate it. Especially when the trick would get him a job.

_“It gives you character,” Mairead, his agent would say. “Lean into it. Smile, sunshine. Topshop next week._

“Oh, Vincent,” Christian leaned forward, as he reached across to tap Vincent’s thigh. “I’m -”

“I need to call a taxi.”

Christian nodded, as he drew his hand away from Vincent’s thigh, leaned back in his own chair. Unsure and unable to reach out to him. Vincent closed off and remote, like an island at high tide. 

**iii**

“It’s not a party if it happens every night, Chris.”

“I know,” Christian responded, voice flint like, as he rubbed at his face with the towel. It was after training, and then stomping to their training room, after doing the drills, preparing for their match with Fiorentina next week.

“Why him? You know that he’s a fuck up. When he threw up at Mouss’, he reeked of alcohol. He barely ate anything, and half the time he twitches as if he’s on something.”

“He’s -” Christian stopped, dropping heavily on the lowered bench in the changing room. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore about this Toby.”

“Argue about what?” Jan barrelled in, and outside their little changing room, the hoots and high spirits of Sonny and Dele echoed in the halls outside. 

Christian rolled his eyes and jerked two fingers towards Toby in mute response. 

“Mature,” Toby shot back, “that’s real mature.”

“Oh, it’s about Vincent, is it?” this now came from Moussa, as he staggered in. A bit slow when walking off the field, due to how delicate his ankles could be whilst in training. 

“Toby is tracking his party habits,” Christian shook his head. “Someone is _obsessed_.”

“It’s hard to miss his partying when it’s in the various socials,” Jan mused, and at Christian’s sharp look he drew back, his voice brittle with defense. “What? It’s there and it’s... true.”

“Where do you think this is going, Chris?” and that was Moussa, seated on the bench beside him, their thighs close but not pressed together. His voice, thoughtful and warm. “I mean, you know what your life is like, versus his. You tend to live your life under the radar, and Vincent... well. He’s going through _something_ , but it doesn’t mean that you have to live the same life with him.”

“So, you think he’s a fuck up, then? Like Toby?”

“Well, more that than a _fuck boi_.”

“Jan,” Christian shot to his feet, exasperation flooding every timbre of his voice. “You really need to stop reading whatever it is you’re reading.”

“ _Deuxmoi_ might just be the most interesting treatise on celebrity of these times. As celebrity gossip has moved from gatekeeping by magazines to online user generated content, it’s a microcosm of the consumer being the creator and consuming its own product rather like a snake eating its tail.”

At the room’s shocked, almost horrified silence at this, Jan hugged himself with his arms. “None of you have ever thought about that?”

“ _No_ ,” Christian said at last. “ _Puha_ , everyone’s crazy. I’m gone.”

***

“I just want to understand,” and that was Christian in his bedsit. Somehow, in the time that they’d gotten to know each other, Christian had never been to his flat before.

“If I knew you were coming, like... a week before,” Vincent racked his brain for the rest of the sentence. “I’d have... baked you a cake, is it? Or...” he rubbed idly at his jaw, looking at the tip that was his apartment. Heaps of clothes showing where he’d stepped out of them to collapse face down on the sofa. Swag bags by the doors, some of them sprawled on their sides, tipping their contents all over the floor: pens, various candles, hair gel and body spray. Candles lit on various surfaces, from shelves to the coffee table in front of the sofa. They came in swag bags nowadays, as ubiquitious as pens, so it made sense to make use of them.

“I would have tidied up.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “You’d probably need a hazmat team,” he said gently, pushing off a pair of jeans from the sofa before he sat down. Outside, darkness began to fall, and Vincent pushed the sash windows open; the chilled breeze, cutting down on the muddled scents of the candles, flames guttering in their containers. Small mercies. 

“I’d offer you something to drink, but I only have---” and he pointed to the half filled bottle of _Ketel One_ on the table between them. Just come out of the freezer by the looks of it, the gin more slushie texture than liquid. This sat beside a cup with coffee that had dried in it, leaving the grounds behind. 

“I don’t drink during the season.”

“ _Natuurlijk_ ,” Vincent said, sitting down in a rickety chair opposite Christian. Today, clad in nothing but jeans and a button down that had only been half buttoned, nothing but bare skin underneath. 

“Again, I just want to understand. Your partying, your--”

“I’m bored.”

“Oh,” Christian frowned. Blinked. 

Caught off guard at how sharp and sudden the words were, he had to remember how to breathe.

“I’m sorry that I’m boring you.” Retrieving that bit of his dignity, dragging it around him like one would a metaphorical puffy jacket after being called off the field after after being substituted, Christian made to stand up.

“Christian-” 

“No,” Christian raised his hands to his shoulders and backed away. “The worst thing, according to Jan, is to be a bore. I’ll--”

Vincent’s conditioning might have been shit over the past years away from football, but he could still move quickly if he had a need to. Three strides, and he put himself between the door and Christian. 

_”Vincent.”_

_"Christian."_

After a tense silence, with neither of them moving, and staring each other down, Vincent was the first to break the standoff

“I’m so bored of _everything_ ,” Vincent sighed, “my job, the world. Even failure is boring. I drink, I get high, because I’d rather be bored and numb than feel. Because the last time I felt something, I wanted that _one_ thing, I couldn’t have it.”

“Football.”

“Yes, football. Here’s the thing about falling in love with something. When it’s the only thing you want. When even rejection feels like attention, because it’s there. How, no matter how hard you try, your face doesn’t fit. You turn up for another club, in a lower league than the previous one, but you want it to _work_ this time,” his voice caught on the hook of a sob. “But it doesn’t - because it doesn’t. And it isn’t the money, it’s wanting to be _good_ at the thing you _love_. It’s you wanting it to love you back and it doesn’t,” Vincent rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “And yet, the only way I can get a modelling job is the fact that I’m a failed football player. Oooh, I can play it off in interviews as some dalliance I had like you would with a girl in your small town, but I _loved_ it. And to see you successful at it and so _easy_ with it -- I hate you at times.” Vincent's eyes molten with it, his face filled with a fury that hurt to see. “I. Hate. You.”

Oh.

Oh. And what could you say to that, but, “I’m sorry,” Christian shook his head, eyes wide and glassy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you tickets and inviting you for matches and -- but I can’t be sorry for hurting you, Vincent, because I’m not living _at_ you. I can’t help it if I made it, and I refuse to be ashamed of whatever successes I’ve had.”

“I’m not--” Vincent's eyes opened wide, as if horrified, but Christian couldn’t care to parse what Vincent was thinking right now. All the time they’d spent together, inviting him into his circle, it didn’t matter because Vincent hated him. 

“I think,” Christian said, voice rough with emotion. “I should go now.”

Vincent shrank away from the door, pushing it open. “I think you should.” 

**iv**

“Wow, he said what?” Toby half shouted incredulously. 

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“After that long message you left on our Whatsapp chat?” Jan squeezed Christian’s shoulder encouragingly. All of them piled in the breakfast nook by the window. Half way pushing Christian to the end of the seating, but he didn't mind. “You pretty much should have kept it to yourself if you didn’t want us to listen.” 

The team had the day off, and Jan, Moussa and Toby crowded into Christian’s kitchen, acting like mums fussing over a poorly child.

“So, we’re not going to go around Vincent’s house and find a hole to bury him in?”

“ _No_ , Toby,” Moussa shook his head. “I don’t know how it went at Ajax---”

“Oh here we go --” Toby sparked, ready to rumble. 

“Children, _please_ ,” Jan interjected with a sharp clap of hands. “We’re here for Christian, remember?”

“Hence, the hole I graciously offered to dig earlier,” Toby groused, mutinous. 

“He hates me,” Christian shook his head, still hurting and tender from it all. “I don’t know what to do about that, or say about that.”

“It’s his choice, his loss,” Jan said. “Like you said, you can’t feel badly because things worked out for you. It’s not as if he didn’t work any less harder or ... _whatever_ , for sure, but that’s on him.”

“I can say,” Christian started. “I can say that I feel badly about it, can’t I? That I wish it had worked out for him?”

Jan smiled, and it was sweet and sympathetic and sad. “You can say anything you want.”

***

_Okay, so the last bit was gash, let me make it up to you. This stuff is prime. Y/Y?_

Vincent sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the message on his smartphone. 

This morning, the skies outside the colour of spoilt milk. A curdled sickly yellow because the sun hid behind the clouds and refused to come out. Probably because it didn’t have everything to its satisfaction on its rider, he thought, without humour. 

Normally, Vincent liked mornings like these, because he didn’t see the squalor so much. Especially if he were drunk enough, or high enough. 

Even though he was in nothing but a snug vest and briefs, and the heating was off, he didn’t feel chilled. Refused to think of seeing Christian’s face, never mind that when he closed his eyes, or came this close to _sober_ that’s all he saw. Christian’s eyes widening as Vincent had let his feelings flow, hot and poisonous. That he tried to send messages to Christian, wanting to tell him how sorry he was but the words wouldn't come, the cursor blinking until the phone defaulted to sleep. How---

“No,” he said to himself, reading the message again. Before he changed his mind, he deleted the message on the phone. Then after a second's hesitation...deleted contact.

With a sigh, he got to his feet, walked into the kitchen, making a face at the ripened banana squashed underfoot, the cold, slimy pulp gushing between his toes. He stopped, lifted his foot, and shook his head at himself 

Ugh, how did he end up like this?

“I wonder...” he muttered, half hopping walking towards the kitchen. Opening up the drawers- half surprised to see black garbage bags there - a roll of paper towels and some Dettol spray. Thanked his past self for setting up his present self like this. Then started to work.

**v**

In the way of stadium crowds, most people had trickled in early. 

Early enough to position their flags on the railings, just so. For children to be giggling and bouncing in their team colours, be it the local purple or the foreign white of Spurs. A boy waved at Vincent, and when he waved back, he turned their head away, pressing himself against his mum’s form, only to giggle and wriggle at her side when the mum kissed the top of his head. 

For people older than ten, they tapped their feet, and bobbed their heads to the music, clapping appreciatively when the dj played a song that was universally liked. 

_And you call when it's over  
You call it should last  
Every minute of the future  
Life is life!_

Vincent had to close his eyes for a minute. Steadied himself against the sounds and sights that made a football stadium, a stadium. He’d come early enough, like ... a fan would have done. Half surprised when the machine accepted his ticket, startled when the steward waved a wand over his form and _waved him through_. Walked up the slanted stands, looked out at the brushed velvet of the football field. Had to blink from tearing up.

It’s amazing how the heart wanted what it wanted. Even now, when he knew his wish to play on the highest level was remote as a moon orbiting Saturn. 

How he’d have loved to have been out there on the field, going through the plans with the trainer, knowing his role. Getting calmer as the tension and excitement only thickened. Checking with the trainer and his assistants, of course, but knowing his own gameplay. 

_I shouldn’t be here. I don’t have permission, I -_ , the thought struck, and his breathing faint and shallow. Emotion tasering barbs of electricity through his chest and gut. 

Vincent jolted open to everything at once; as if he’d been plugged into every fan’s emotional output. From the joy of the child whose tender heart had yet to be broken by football - to the adult who turned up year after year, heart broken and mended and scarred beyond belief. The spouse who came along, not because they believed in the magic of the game, but because they loved what their partner loved. The older siblings pointing out the figures on the field and explaining it to their smaller charges. 

And there was more. The complexion of the air changing, almost textured, as the tension built up for this game. His skin pimpled and goosebump taut. There was a lot riding on it, no more group stages or first or second legs. This was the knock out. Win this, and they went through to the semis, lose and it was another year lost. 

_And everyone gives everything and every song/ Everybody sings... Life is life!_ \- the bouncy notes of the Opus song now _torture_ , like hail on the roof of the top of a car you'd be trapped in. Each impact a jolt of noise, and a rattle, leaving you half wondering if the roof would fall in. This is why he’d _liked_ being comfortably numb. Liked looking at everything from a distance, pain receptors unfeeling. Receding from everyone, everywhere. Avoided anything and everything that triggered emotion, until now. 

When the sounds of _Po Po Po Po_ ripped through the stadium, the audience screaming with it, as the home side ran out to warm up, he couldn't stand it anymore. He dragged his hoodie up and over his head, pressed his hands against his face and bawled.

***

“Christian.”

“Vincent --” and that was Christian. It was now the next day, and Vincent had had it on good authority that Spurs would be staying at Settesanti, near the Artemio Franchi Stadium. He’d paid good money for this information, booking a room at a high enough cost. Wandered down to the ground floor, especially since he knew the time that they’d be leaving (after breakfast). The windows open, letting the sun and the world in; the light slightly too bright, but this was not the time to wear sunglasses indoors. 

The morning after, and Christian scrubbed and pink from the shower he’d have had in the morning, plus the heat. They were by the breakfast buffet, and Vincent wanted to get this over with, before anyone had time to interrupt. Before... before he lost his nerve and wanted to retreat again.

“Just listen, please.” 

“Okay,” Christian in those notes of half consideration, half wariness. He didn't take a step back, or turn away. Body language cautious, stiff in the shoulders, but still _open_. Tentatively, Vincent took a step forward, and spoke.

“I’m sorry about how we ended. About the things I said. I can’t hate you, Christian, I _couldn’t_. You aren’t boring, you’re the first person that interested me in a long time, who made me want to _feel_ , to even... _clean._.”

“You cleaned? Wow.” Christian raised his eyebrows, and Vincent might have wanted to cry again, because Christian made it so easy. 

“I cleaned,” Vincent half laughed, “and I just --- there’s no road without you, Christian. It’s going to be hard, because I’m drunk on feelings and probably toxins leaving my body and whatever detergents I used to clean my bedsit-- is it too late to try again?”

“Vincent.”

“If it is, it’s fine,” and it would be, but he had to know. “Here I am.”

Christian looked at him and nodded, eyes filled with the same emotion. 

“There you are,” Christian agreed, face saying everything that Vincent needed to hear, although the words followed moments later. “No, it’s not too late.”

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Many warm, effusive thanks to bluedreaming for the cover art. You really saved my life here. It's sleek, and bright and professional and it's better than I could ever dream of doing. Thanks to WhiteHaru37 for reaching out and finding the artist who did this, as well giving me the code for the right sizing of this cover, because I couldn't deal. 
> 
> Without FURTHER ADO: For itsadrizzit: 
> 
> I hope this is on time, itsadrizzit, my love. 
> 
> I was hoping to post it on your birthday, but... my ceiling fell in and flooded my room and I have been rowing with the landlord since. AND - I will be MIA for the actual day. BUT- it's here, lovely! I hope this presses some buttons for you (but the right ones!) and that you have great cake!  
> [Play list is here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2WiiPpvkJjlbLr4bSaxjA8)
> 
> Song notes (this is in order of the numbers in the fic - you don't have to listen to 'em)
> 
>   * Dibby Dibby Sound - DJ Fresh 
>   * Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd 
>   * Life is Life- Opus 
>   * Seven Nation Army - white stripes (known as the po po po po song in europe) 
>   * Ti Amo - Umberto Tozzi
>   * Waiting (reprive) George Michael
> 



End file.
